


we propose to roar until we set care a-packing

by Gwerfel



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Dundy is the best bit, Erebus lads, Friendship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21979642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: "I think it's damned bad form, you know. We were both as much to blame, as I recall.""Graham, what are you talking about?" James frowned."'His conquests mount up by the score'? What am I supposed to think?""Well I admit it is a lazy rhyme, but you can't blame a fellow for--""Don't play coy with me,” Graham jabbed a finger at the verse."I swear I have no idea--""You want me to spell it out, is that right?” Graham darkened, “Very well, I shall. The Cornwallis?"-----James tries to cheer up the Erebus wardroom with a saucy poem. It is not well received.
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Graham Gore
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	we propose to roar until we set care a-packing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kt_fairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/gifts).



> Written for the Terror Bingo 2019 prompt 'New Year's'
> 
> So I wrote a very silly poem about Graham Gore to amuse my friend Kt_fairy, and somehow it evolved into this. It's the first Terror fic I've written with just officers and no Hickey, and it was HARD (no pun intended). Please enjoy.

“Good lord,” Le Vesconte shook his head, looking at the paper James set down before him, “is this what you have been doing all afternoon?”

“Not all afternoon,” James tutted defensively, “no longer than half an hour.”

“Is that all?” Dundy stifled a yawn. “One rather loses track, on Sundays.”

That was true enough. Mornings began with the  _ Erebus  _ divine service on deck, which was doubly unpleasant these past months since the canvas had been put up for winter. Sir John did his venerable best, of course, but without the blessing of fresh air blowing through it was difficult to keep the men lively through the entire sermon. On Sunday afternoons their captain enforced quiet reflection and study in both the wardroom and the forecastle. This was all perfectly correct and proper, and well within Sir John’s rights, of course, but it did leave everyone in rather a stagnant mood. Something James felt they could do without, the situation being what it was.

Dundy looked down at the sheet James had given him, the ink still wet on the last stanzas, and chuckled,

“Tom Bowline strikes again, I see; you must truly be bored.”

“I only thought it would be amusing,” James reached to snatch the paper away, but Dundy was too quick.

“I shall be the judge of that!” Dundy rolled his eyes dramatically, raising the paper to his face as though about to begin orating from it. James sat impatiently, full of the usual nerves one feels when one has created something and shared it. 

Perhaps it was a silly fancy; he’d simply thought to cheer the rest of his brother officers up a bit, and it was his turn. Last week, Dundy had performed a series of impromptu skits imitating various members of the crew, revealing a startling talent for mimicry. His impersonation of Mr Blanky,  _ Terror’s _ grizzled ice master had them all rolling, but it was his bombastic turn as Sir John himself that nearly broke the peace entirely. They’d had to stuff their shirt cuffs in their mouths and all turned quite pink in their efforts to contain laughter, fruitlessly shushing each other as the captain was only a few doors away, no doubt bent over his writing desk perfecting next weeks’ sermon.

The Sunday afternoon before, Fairholme had presented them all with an extremely amusing sketch he’d made, worthy of Punch magazine. It was not so vulgar that James had worried Sir John mind find it, but it did warrant a disbelieving 'I say!' from Le Vesconte, and once Graham had the joke explained to him his eyes widened like saucers and he shook his head, "I'm sure no lady I ever knew would wear such a thing," he'd said, solemnly, making them all laugh again.

Dundy finished reading with a cry of delight and slapped James on the arm, “Oh, ripping good, Jas!"

"Do you think so?"

"I do. Pin it to the door there, so Walter and Graham see it.”

“You don’t think Graham will mind?”

“Why should he?” Dundy shook his head. “It’s really quite flattering - I must say I’m jealous you thought to immortalise him in such a way, and not your dearest friend.”

“‘Gore’ is simply more agreeable for rhyming,” James laughed, getting up to find something to affix the poem to the wardroom door, “I’d have had a devil of a time with Le Vesconte, eh? Besides, it is more amusing if it is about Graham - you are too much of a rogue, no one would have any trouble believing the allegations.”

“You are quite right of course,” Dundy chuckled again, stretching, “Gore is a far more honourable man than I. Very droll.”

“I thank you.”

“Perhaps Walter might be enticed to illustrate it for you,” Dundy got to his feet and joined James at the door to read it over. “Set poor Graham off blushing again.”

“You see, that is a perfect example of your roguishness.” James replied, stepping back to admire his work. 

“Very fine,” said Dundy, patting his arm again. “Now. I’m on deck before supper, so I shall withdraw. Until this evening.”

James found something to keep himself busy with in the meantime. Boredom had not laid such a claim to him that he was moved to read his bible on a Sunday, but there were plenty of other books available, and not all dry. Fairholme passed through the wardroom once and found the poem just as entertaining as Dundy had, leaving with a grin, shaking his head. 

Restless, James left to walk the quarterdeck before dinner, stretching his legs and feeling no less fitful in the foggy gloom beneath the canvas. Things were tight, as Sir John had said they would be, but sunrise would be on its way in a matter of weeks, and the expedition would rise with it, out of their slumber and forward to the passage. 

He returned to his berth to wash and make himself presentable for the evening meal. It was hardly cheering to dress for a supper of the same salt-laden mush they had been pushing across their plates for the past months, but at least the wine was generally drinkable, and the company very pleasant.

James was just buttoning his coat when there came a hard knock on his door which made him start with surprise. It was far from Bridgens’ soft rapping, and Dundy rarely cared to announce himself before entering. 

“Yes?” He turned.

The door slid open, and there stood First Lieutenant Graham Gore, a sheet of paper crumpling in one fist and a deep frown on his brow.

“Graham,” James said, “is something wrong?” 

"Is this supposed to be a joke?" He hissed in a strangled tone, raising the paper. James saw with a sinking feeling that it was his poem, a little tear in the top where Graham had ripped it from the door.

He swallowed, and tried to put on a cheerful face, "well, yes. Of course it is, what else would it be?"

Graham narrowed his eyes, and spoke very low, "I read your message, you know. You are not subtle."

"My message?" James frowned, genuinely confused. He understood that Graham was a demure sort of man, not a braggart like plenty of officers James had known who needed their egos bolstered. That was why penning the thing had amused James so much.

"Yes,” Graham continued, his face reddening with real frustration that was still baffling to James, “and I think it's damned bad form, you know. We were both as much to blame, as I recall."

"Graham, what are you talking about?"

" _ His conquests mount up by the score _ ? What am I supposed to think?"

"Well I admit it is a lazy rhyme, but you can't blame a fellow for--"

"Don't play coy with me,” Graham jabbed a finger at the verse, “you allude to it here -  _ the frozen north or Singapore _ ?!"

"I swear I have no idea--"

"You want me to spell it out, is that right?” Graham darkened, “Very well, I shall. The  _ Cornwallis _ ? It is quite clear that is what you refer to, Fitzjames, at least be man enough to admit it."

"The Cornw--" realisation dawned, with a cold flush of clarity. He stared at Graham, suddenly seeing him with different eyes - it was five years ago, they were both lieutenants, younger and keen for their first taste of war.

"China," he said, flatly. “When we met in China.” He felt dreadful.

"China, Singapore, the inference is quite clear." Gore blustered. 

"No Graham, I would never - I had not even  _ thought _ … it was a lark, there’s no insidious double-meaning, I promise you."

“My behaviour on this expedition has been above reproach, I am quite sure Sir John will say so, if it is put to him.”

“Come now, Lieutenant Gore, there is no need for this - a misunderstanding, that is all. I can assure you I meant only to lighten everyone’s mood, not to - I had not a care for anything that may have happened in China. That was - I mean, that  _ is _ , very firmly in the past.”

“In the past.” Gore repeated, frown still in place, but his temper cooling. 

“Barely even a clear memory.” James insisted. He took the poem from Graham and folded it neatly, “I apologise for this, and we shall say no more about it. I’ll see you at dinner.”

With that he closed the door, and would have sagged against it, if not for the worry that Gore might hear him. He could hear the heavy footsteps recede, and sighed with relief.

It was not that James had forgotten meeting Gore in China, exactly, of course he remembered very well. Only there were certain parts of his life he was careful to gloss over when recollecting. It was better to keep one's mind on the job, superfluous details were not permitted to accumulate; to cause clutter. James had many years practice at this, and considered himself to have something of a gift for ordered thinking. He didn’t forget; he tidied away. 

But now of course, Gore had done the unpacking for him. Every detail came crashing back over him in luminous colour, sight and sound. The pure black of the water in the harbour, like oil, and the distant thunder of fireworks echoing off the hull of the Cornwallis. Gore’s breath on his cheek. 

It was early in the year, and biting cold in the northern Chinese harbour their ships anchored in. They’d taken the port town some months before, and were awaiting further action, which was expected in the south. Admiral Parker had given orders to let the men relax a little, and they were all granted shore leave.

Fitzjames and Gore had met due to their reputations, largely. James, still in his twenties and reluctant to appear impressed by anything, was nonetheless eager to meet  _ the  _ Mr Gore, who he had read about in Back’s memoirs of the Arctic, and who - as any of Gore’s shipmates were proud to boast on his behalf - had survived a rifle exploding in his hands without so much as a scratch when shooting cockatoos in Australia. And - his rum soaked comrades would hasten to add - he shot the damn bird too. 

Gore himself sat at the centre of much of this talk but only spoke out to correct a point or a location. He was a fine looking man, James would as readily admit it then as he would now, with a pleasant smile and a strong, penetrating gaze. He was everything a lieutenant in her majesty’s navy ought to be. O _ f course _ he was - he had been bred for it; Gore’s father was a rear admiral, his grandfather had been on Cook’s last expedition - and had shot the first kangaroo in Australia. Infuriatingly, Gore carried this enviable heritage with gallant charm and unconscious modesty. 

Not one to be outdone, and with plenty of hard drinking and gregarious friends of his own, over three nights in Chinese taverns James had told every tale of daring he had to his name. Shameful, really, though all considered great fun at the time. 

On the third night, even James had grown weary of his own voice. He had early duty, he seemed to recall; that was why he had gone back to Cornwallis alone. Not alone - Graham had come, why? James had forgotten that detail, he had been drinking. Perhaps more high spirited bravado - he vaguely remembered Gore wanting to see the ship, and himself wanting to show it off, to extend their week of competition to a tour of one of the finest vessels in the dock.

They’d rowed back under a shower of explosives, he remembered that much - the Chinese welcomed in their new year in February, and so the celebrations were particularly festive that evening. James remembered he could still hear singing and drumming and the ringing of bells across the whole bay, it skipped merrily on the still surface of the water beneath the crackling pops of the fireworks splitting the sky above.

“I fancy we’ll have a good view from the gun deck,” James remembered saying that very clearly, as they boarded. They were both quite drunk, but they’d been in the navy long enough by then to know not to show it, and the officer of the watch must have been obliging when he let them on. It wasn’t uncommon for officers from other ships to come aboard to visit, especially on a night like that, with a bright sense of joliety in the air. 

“Just here, you see,” Fizjames led Gore across the deserted gun deck, to a cannon port which he suspected might afford the best view. The memory became very clear at that point, and James began to wonder if he hadn’t engineered the whole thing, or if there hadn’t been some earlier agreement, spoken or otherwise. 

The scene from that gun port had been spectacular, and so romantic it was almost cynical. The bulkhead neatly framed a perfect picture of the entire bay, shaped like a crab's claw closing around the water, silt flats oozing black beneath the wooden jetty's stilted legs, an array of light and colour marking out the squat wooden brothels and opium dens. Beyond that the homes of the locals rising uphill, bordered by grey distant mountains, quiet and ancient standing miles and miles inland. Rockets shot upwards into the ink black sky, bursting open and scattering light out into the night, the reflection dancing fractured in the water below. 

“It is rather heartening to see that blasted powder used for something other than blowing up our ships, wouldn’t you say?” Gore leaned in to look, shoulder to shoulder with James. “Or are you too much of a warmonger for sentimental thinking?” 

“I expect I am capable of both,” James replied, flippant and loose tongued.

They watched a little longer - the colours were dazzling, James could remember losing himself in the ribbons of molten gold shimmering into flashes of green hellfire, then smouldering, blazing red, all in the blink of an eye. Raucous singing rose up from the dockside, drawing their attention to the glowing embers of torchlight where Graham and James’ countrymen still revelled. 

“I do hope they’ll have the sense to stay away from the whores,” James commented, “the captain told me he’d flog the next man caught trying to bring a girl aboard.” 

“They always find a way, though, you know sailors.” Gore laughed. He was really quite close, by then, though James couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just for a better view of the display outside. Combined with his easy nature, Graham’s body heat was reassuring, and not unwelcome in the winter chill blowing in through the port. James stood a little straighter, shifting his weight from one foot to another to allow more room. Graham closed the space, moving to continue pressing against James, leg to hip.

James took a chance and turned his head slightly to see Graham’s face. Graham looked back, steadily.

“They find a way,” Graham said, eyes lighting up as another rocket exploded. “It is a long time to be 'away from shore', as it were.”

James looked at him sideways, still uncertain where this was going but getting surer by the moment. He hummed, half agreement.

“And with hardly a moment to oneself,” Gore was speaking low now, almost secretive.

James finally took a step away from the port, and from Graham to glance up and down the deck briefly. “We seem to be quite alone now,” he replied calmly, “perhaps you’d like me to leave you to yourself?”

Gore’s furtive face broadened into a smile. He stood back himself, further into the shadows.

“Come here,” he beckoned James, who returned to his position close to the gun port, close to Graham again. Gore moved quickly to fill the breach between them, standing so that his thigh lodged between James' legs, entangled like graceless French dancers.

'Upright refreshment', they used to call it when James was a midshipman, and indulged in this sort of thing more than he did now. He had grown more cautious as an officer, but he reasoned that Gore must have just as much to lose as him. 

Refusing to be outdone in the face of boldness, especially by a man who knocked himself over trying to shoot a cockatoo, James placed his hand firmly over Graham’s groin and squeezed. Graham jerked forward, bending at the waist in surprise, but quickly regrouped, hardening rapidly under James’s fingers. 

“I say,” he gaped, “steady on.”

“Well,” James replied, “If we are going to, then let’s.”

He turned his wrist and lay his palm along Gore's considerable length. Gore nodded, his breath already coming quickly with the excitement as he fumbled to unbutton his breeches. James felt his own body begin to respond, adrenaline firing through him, the scent of gunpowder in his nostrils, mixed with salt from the cool sea breeze blowing smoke across the bay. 

The air was cool, but inside Graham’s cotton drawers it was warm - humid, beads of sweat that clung to his coarse, intimate hair brushed and dampened James’s knuckles as he worked his hand with mounting confidence. 

“All right, but… here, shift over,” Gore turned himself in towards James, pulling them closer, almosts face to face, but still with a view through the gun port. “Let me…" he saw to James' breeches now, needing to open every button to allow access for his large hand, "there, now we may both benefit.”

The polite simplicity of the gesture would have been enough to makes James laugh if he hadn’t been so stupidly grateful for it, now he was close to another person, now he was hard and aching to spend. Graham’s hand circled his prick and he could barely restrain himself from thrusting eagerly into it. “Is that...?” Gore asked almost bashfully, his voice darker in his throat now, hot breath gathering in the shell of James’s ear,

"Yes,” James sighed, “could you--?" He demonstrated with his own hand. Graham swallowed,

"Like so?" He returned the same rhythm.

"Ah! Yes… and is this...?"

"Mm."

Braced against each other hip to hip, they frigged each other quickly and wordlessly, James with one arm up against the bulkhead to take both of their weight, Graham slouching into him, his head resting on James’s shoulder, breathing down his stiff collar.

It had been a long time since James had engaged in this kind of strange intimacy, and the thick heft of Graham Gore, both in James’ hand and against his body, his eager attentiveness and the burning rivalry they had been locked into all week meant that his arousal had been barely simmering below the surface for days. Perhaps it was the same for Gore, for it did not take either of them long to reach a frenzy, hands growing slick from the tropical bubble of heat between them, sliding up and down each others’ lengths with intensity that felt like competition. As soon as that thought entered James’ mind, he was done for, shattering into light like the dazzling shards on the water. 

Had there been much between them, after that? James didn’t think there could have been; he would remember. Gore’s ship left, shortly after, they did not meet again for years.

In his berth on Erebus, James looked down at the poem he had written. Perhaps it was in poor taste. He stood and lifted the shade from his oil lamp, holding the paper over the flame and dropping it into his empty chamber pot, where it curled and blazed into black soot and silver ash. Ah well, James thought, straightening his waistcoat. It was only a poem. And anyway, he still thought it was amusing 

  
  
  


When Graham Gore comes ashore

Close your shutters, lock your doors

A man the ladies all adore

(and whom their husbands much abhor)

Our dear Lieutenant Graham Gore!

On sloop, or galley or man o’war,

In every land he doth explore

He leaves the doxies wanting more,

And every maiden drops her drawers

For our dear Lieutenant Graham Gore!

From the frozen north to Singapore,

His conquests mount up by the score,

From bed and bunk and tavern floor

Hear every girl he loves implore,

“Please send us back our Graham Gore!”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
